


you flicked a match into my brain

by annejumps



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Bottom Richie Tozier, Eddie is Forty, First Time, M/M, Richie Tozier Has Issues, Richie is Thirty, Self-Esteem Issues, Strangers to Lovers, Top Eddie Kaspbrak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:35:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26068819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annejumps/pseuds/annejumps
Summary: “I mean, it’s fine, I get it. You haven’t been on a date in a while, not with a man, you make good money, you want to flaunt it a little.”“That’s not— I wasn’t—” Something in Eddie’s voice says, however, that Richie was spot on. And… that’s adorable.“I appreciate it, I really do, but seriously, I was even thinking if we’d gone to some noodle place I’d be totally fine with it. Would have made it easier, actually, going back to my place considering I’m much more ‘noodle’ than ‘filet mignon.’ C’mon, dude, look at me.”Eddie does, and he doesn’t say anything, but he smiles. Richie imagines what he must look like in the streetlight, glasses and messy hair, and is confused, but hey.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 10
Kudos: 187





	you flicked a match into my brain

“Jesus Christ, watch it, you asshole,” Richie hears sharp and clear even in this crowded and loud cafe, from somewhere down and to his left, just as he realizes his boiling hot venti coffee is splashing from the lid.

He opens his mouth to say—something, which is entirely forgotten as he locks eyes with the furious, clean-looking, be-suited and gorgeous small man at the two-top crammed next to the pickup counter.

 _Pickup counter_ , he thinks wildly.

The coffee has spilled on the table, for the most part, but also on a sleeve of the man’s dark blue suit, and something about his watch, and Jesus, his tie bar—who wears a tie bar?—says this is going to be a _Let me pay for the dry cleaning_ conversation rather than a _Let me buy you a new jacket_ conversation, not that that entire premise doesn’t rest on the assurance that anyone hearing that offer from Richie would look him over and refuse to let him pay for anything, and not because he’s hot, since he’s okay-looking at best.

The man is still staring at him, still furious, but there’s something else there, not that Richie has enough blood in his brain to decide what exactly it is. His black hair is slicked back and he’s got outsized, vividly velvety brown eyes, and unfortunately for all of them, small, dark and furious is Richie’s type. “Uh, sorry. Uh, dry cleaning?” he manages, gesturing with his cup, remembering just in time to keep it a subdued gesture.

“‘Dry cleaning’ what?” the man snaps. “Are you asking if I’m familiar with dry cleaning?” He’s got a strongly angled face, something that reminds Richie of art deco architecture, planes and slopes fitting together. (And… where did that thought come from?) He’s got crow’s feet, he’s probably older than Richie. But the eyes, the eyes. 

“I mean, you look like you are,” Richie says. “You look like you keep them in business.”

The man squints ferociously, and Richie nearly drops his cup. “What, are you saying I look like I spill coffee on myself all the time?”

“No?” Richie waves his free hand in an I-give-up-have-mercy gesture. “You just… look like you… have a lot of fancy clothes.” Mentally headdesking, he then finds himself imagining the man’s immaculate walk-in closet, rows of Brooks Brothers, the man standing in front of it all, hands on his hips, wearing only striped boxers, silk dress socks that cost as much as a week of Richie’s meals, and… what the hell, sock garters. Richie blinks. 

The man’s face scrunches up. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? I have nice clothes, of course I have nice clothes.” He reaches into his suit coat, the interior pocket Richie has never had a need for, and takes out a small metal case, from which he slides out a business card. Holding it between his first and middle fingers, he holds it out to Richie, and although Richie feels like he’s staring stupidly at it, it’s never a question that he’ll take it. 

_Edward Kaspbrak_ is his name, in neat, perfect black type, and Richie refrains from making a Patrick Bateman joke. After all, if he claimed to not be attracted at all to Christian Bale in that role, he’d be lying. 

There’s the name of his firm as well as two phone numbers on the card. Edward is something called a risk analyst, which has the smell of money around it, and the idea of Richie paying for his suit, his dry cleaning, or anything is so funny that Richie finds himself saying “Great, so this is your cell? I’ll text this number to tell you where I’m taking you to dinner Friday night, Edward.”

Without missing a beat, Edward shoots back, “Call me, asshole. Don’t text. Kids text. And it’s Eddie.”

Richie nods. “Okay. Eddie.” He puts the card in the back pocket of his jeans. Unlike Edward—Eddie, Richie doesn’t have a special pocket in his jacket for business shit.

Eddie is still staring at him and Richie suddenly can’t take it—luckily, he does have somewhere else to be. “All right. See ya, Eds,” he throws out casually, tipping his cup just slightly and winking, striding out with all the dignity he can muster through the crush of people on this chilly, drizzly New York morning. As he opens the door, he glances quickly back to see Eddie irritably dabbing at his sleeve with neatly folded napkins. The cold air hits his burning cheeks like a blast. 

Richie feels simultaneously as though his heart and lungs have vanished and as though his heart is about to hammer out of his chest. Maybe it’s the coffee, he thinks, stopped at a street corner waiting to cross, taking a huge drink of it. The caffeine is why he’s shaking. Definitely. Maybe the cold. Yeah.

Richie’s idea of seeing men isn’t really… going out on dates, per se. Drinks, sure. Fast food at 3 a.m. Not, like, an actual dinner, and not with any guys who own fucking tie bars or even know what they are. Richie isn’t totally sure how _he_ knows what they are. Probably something to do with being gay. Maybe it was in the introductory packet, but even though Richie’s thirty, it’s been a long time since Richie realized he likes boys, and he’s probably forgotten most of what’s in that packet, except the important stuff.

It’s a chilly walk to work. In theory, Richie is a comedian, but when it comes to paying the proverbial bills, he works in his friend Mike’s store, which sells vinyl, books, and the odd comic. Mike is the most patient person he knows, which, not coincidentally, is why he puts up with Richie. That, and Richie has expert knowledge of music and comics that can only be obtained through years of high school closeted nerddom. An encyclopedic knowledge of Clash, Rush, and Pavement albums? Sure. Opinions on Jamie Delano’s ‘Hellblazer’? Absolutely. Any knowledge of the better restaurants in New York City, ones that required reservations and didn’t have “noodle” in the name? Kinda lacking in that department. 

Then again, Richie suspects he’s not actually going to be the one making the restaurant decision, anyway. Not paying, either. Obviously, Richie’s within arm’s reach of living the dream: he’s going to have a sugar daddy.

“Hey, Mike,” he says, walking in. “Good news. Got a sugar daddy this morning.”

“Finally,” Mike replies, not looking up from the register. Richie sets his cup down on the counter, and Mike tilts his head at it. “Didn’t get any for me?”

“Dude, you probably got here like two hours ago. I just woke up, I haven’t had enough coffee to remember to get anything for you.”

“You had enough wherewithal to get a sugar daddy before you got here, though.”

“What can I say, I’ve got unusual talents.”

Mike groans. “I don’t want to know. It’s still too early for that.”

Grinning, Richie winks. “So, anyway, I’m going to need Friday night off.”

Sighing, Mike nods. “And I guess you’ll be coming in late on Saturday, too.”

Richie bounces a little on his heels, before he realizes he’s doing it. “Yeah, go ahead and put me down for that.”

Mike smiles at him and doesn’t ask anything further, mercifully. Maybe, at some point, Richie can inform someone else, possibly Bev, on everything about this Eddie Kaspbrak.

\-------

“What am I doing,” Richie mutters to himself that evening, sitting on his bed, staring at his phone and the business card lying next to it on his bed. With a deep breath, he opens a new message, and types in the number on the card.

_hey eds_

Send.

Message delivered.

Message read.

Typing.

_Eddie. And I told you to call me._

_im clumsy and i cant follow directions. sorry_

_You have a lot to make up for to get in my good books. You didn’t even give me your name._

Shit.

_richie_

Suddenly the phone is ringing, and Richie hits Answer. “Richie,” Eddie says.

“Hey, Eds.”

“Eddie.”

“Eddie. So, where are you taking me for dinner on Friday?”

“Delmonico’s,” Eddie says immediately.

“No shit. Fucking Delmonico’s,” Richie says. Has to be a joke. Has to be. No impeccably dressed gay sugar daddy is treating Richard Tozier to filet mignon and brandied mushrooms at fucking Delmonico’s in Lower Manhattan. Not in a million years. “Okay then. I’ll meet you outside there at eight. Look for the guy that isn’t wearing a suit.” 

“I’m picking you up,” Eddie tells him. “Give my assistant your address.”

“Ooh la la,” Richie says, looking at the office number on the card and imagining telling Eddie’s assistant that his hot Friday night date lives in Greenpoint over a deli, a florist, and a physical therapist. “Will do, Eds.”

“Eddie,” he says, and hangs up.

\-------

“What the fuck am I going to wear?” he wonders aloud on Friday at approximately 7:00, staring into his closet. Or what passes for his closet. He hasn’t been in the closet for years—it’s too small.

Okay. He does have shirts that don’t have prints, and he has suits, or at least pants and jackets that weren’t necessarily purchased as a set, that are on the more subdued end of things. Richie has always had a distinct… style, namely that of “extra in a Steve Martin movie,” and gayness notwithstanding, he’s no fashion plate. Unimaginably thick glasses don’t lend themselves to couture. But whatever, there are many colors in the rainbow and he’s somehow tricked Eddie into believing he’s good looking, or something, or maybe Eddie has a thing for dorks. Regardless, if he can just look sort of like he almost belongs at Delmonico’s without looking like a waiter, he’ll probably be fine.

Richie likes living in Greenpoint, and if Eddie’s got a problem with it then he can go fuck himself, but still, something about being out on his stoop waiting for Eddie to drive up in God knows what high-end motor vehicle—or, Christ, having a chauffeur, but surely he wasn’t that wealthy—while Richie stands waiting among trash bags on the sidewalk is a little too much. Hands in his pockets, he can’t help pacing a little. His phone buzzes. 

_Almost there. Look for the black Escalade_

Jesus.

And there it is. Eddie is dwarfed by the massive car, as if he’s in a mobile fortress. Richie heaves his limbs awkwardly up the step to the passenger (leather) seat and regards him. Black car, black hair, black eyes, black suit. Faint black stubble, like he hasn’t shaved today, which seems odd for someone so neat. Richie wonders if he plans to give him stubble burn. He’s so gorgeous Richie feels his neck get hot.

“Hey,” he says, voice practically echoing in Eddie’s huge fucking assault vehicle.

“Hello,” Eddie says, one hand on the wheel, just looking at him as though they aren’t going anywhere anytime soon. Then he visibly snaps out of it, eyes going to the clock on the dash, and pulls out into traffic with surprising aggressiveness, even for New York. Richie almost grabs the oh-shit handle. “Seatbelt,” Eddie says, in a tone that brooks no argument. Risk analyst, Richie thinks.

Technically, Delmonico’s is seven miles away, but it’s New York City on a Friday night, which is why it’ll probably take close to an hour. The Escalade smells like leather and Eddie’s cologne. 

“So, yeah,” Richie says, “sorry about the coffee.”

Eddie cuts a look over to him, and huffs out a laugh. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I mean, I feel kind of bad—you’re now driving me to dinner because I spilled coffee on your suit. And by the way, full disclosure, I’m a record store employee moonlighting as a comedian, and no I don’t have a trust fund, so I’m assuming you’re paying for your dry cleaning, driving us to dinner, and paying for dinner.”

“That depends,” Eddie says. “You gonna put out?” And then he grins, and his face squinches up and he has dimples, massive dimples.

“I’m always a sure thing,” Richie replies dryly, glad the relative dimness is hiding how red his face must be now.

“Thought you might be.” Dimples still evident, Eddie laughs again. “You seem like the type.”

“What, you know a lot of slutty tall guys with glasses? I gotta join this club.” 

Eddie’s full on laughing now, and Richie feels his heartbeat stuttering. With that, he suddenly feels like he’s known Eddie for a long time. Which is uncanny, considering he’s never met anyone remotely like him.

And it’s not just the car, the suits, the watch, and the cologne. Eddie is… intense, Richie realizes. Yeah, his method of driving is a clue. The fierce, intent way he looks at Richie, like there’s no one else in the vicinity, is another. Most of the people in Richie’s life are relaxed to the point of narcolepsy, but not Eddie. He knows the valet at Delmonico’s, and the hostess, and their server, and they all snap to attention for him. He’s crisp as a new dollar bill. There’s a wildness under it, however, that Richie finds himself increasingly fascinated with. A coiled tension. 

Eddie’s a good five inches shorter than Richie, maybe six, and if Richie isn’t completely delusional, Eddie’s looked him up and down at least once. Tall sluts with glasses, then, yup. But of course, Richie has been known to be delusional before.

Eddie doesn’t have a tie, and the top button is undone on his bright white shirt. He’s so hot it hurts to look directly at him. 

Delmonico’s is white tablecloths and monogrammed wine glasses. It’s Old School with a capital O, and he almost wants to make fun of it, it’s such an institution, but he’s at the same time so in awe and everything’s so pristine he feels like he shouldn’t touch anything, even the bread and butter. At the same time, he knows with sudden clarity that if they were at some random noodle house in Brooklyn, they’d be having a good time anyway. This fancy deal is, actually, totally beside the point. But he’s not going to complain. Random noodle houses don’t have tiny Baked Alaskas.

Or oysters.

“What? They’re good,” Eddie protests, with what might be a twinkle in his eyes, having ordered the starter for both of them without so much as a by-your-leave.

“I didn’t say they were bad,” Richie replies, having secretly hoped he’d have a chance for them this evening, and when they arrive he downs his share of the sizable East Coast oysters with relative ease, only almost choking once. “I hope you were impressed,” he tells Eddie, who just dimples at him. “Why don’t you order my entree for me, too,” Richie adds, pretending sarcasm, as the server returns. “You ordered the starter for us, anyway. You must know everything I want.”

“Asshole,” Eddie says to him under his breath. Turning to the server, he smiles, dimpling again. “The nine-ounce Wagyu filet mignon for him, please,” he says, and Richie scans the menu in a panic. “Uh, I’ll need a box for that,” he says, looking at the price on the menu. 

“Yeah, you better eat all of that,” Eddie teases, eyes squinting in merriment, and his tone sends something straight to Richie’s cock. Damn. Eddie again scans the menu. “Sides, sides…. You’re not allergic to anything, are you?” he asks, expression changing to one of concern.

“Not yet,” Richie says.

“French fries?” Eddie suggests. 

“I’m not getting French fries at fu— at Delmonico’s.”

“Lobster mac and cheese,” Eddie tells the server.

“And for you, sir?”

“The lamb chops, and brandied mushrooms.”

“Jesus,” Richie mumbles as the server departs with their menus. “I better really put out tonight. You’re getting the deluxe treatment. With the extra happy ending.”

Eddie chuckles into his wine glass, and Richie figures he doesn’t imagine a blush, considering how good the lighting is in here. It makes him unable to shut up. 

“That is,” Richie continues, “if I don’t fall asleep on you first. After bread, six oysters, at least half a nine-ounce steak, lobster mac and cheese, and wine. And that doesn’t even include dessert. Seriously, Eds, I’m not twenty anymore.”

“Maybe I like it when my overfed dates fall asleep on me.”

“Well, who am I to kink-shame?” _After all, I have a thing about tiny intense rich guys_ , apparently, he thinks and just barely manages not to say.

The food is, of course, perfect. The Wagyu alone is insane, marbled to a degree Richie has never seen before and might not see again. Telling himself steak doesn’t really reheat well in the microwave, Richie eats just about all of it, reminiscent of the days when, as a fourteen-year-old, he’d stood over the sink eating a dozen cabbage rolls at midnight, much to his mother’s shock. He’s a growing boy, after all. A growing thirty-year-old.

Richie tries not to scarf it all down like a starving man, he really does, but it’s hard to keep composure with Eddie, over there eating with controlled sophistication, watching him with an inscrutable look on his face, catching but never keeping eye contact in a way that’s maddening.

“Room for dessert?” the server asks. They stare at each other, brows raised.

“I… I really want one of those little… Baked Alaskas,” Richie admits. “Just, like, to at least try it. Even though technically, there is no room at the inn.” He winces; what was that? No room at the inn? A Baby Jesus–Baked Alaska–stomach joke?

“We’ll share one,” Eddie tells the server.

It arrives looking like some sort of sea urchin, with toasted spikes of meringue, sitting in raspberry coulis. Eddie carves his bites with great care, and Richie’s wondering why he’s even turned on by that when Eddie discreetly licks the meringue from his spoon. He’s not even trying to make a point of doing it.

Eddie pays the bill with only a glance at the total, while Richie fights panic and drinks the rest of his wine. He’s definitely going somewhere with Eddie after this—he gets the feeling Eddie wants that, and he himself hasn’t wanted something, or someone, like this in some time, but where? Richie isn’t sure how someone like Eddie would do in Richie’s apartment. He seemed, as Leo said about Kate in Titanic, like an indoor girl, and Richie’s place is only indoors as a technicality: cleaner places, there have been. 

But then, Leo had been wrong about Kate, and they’d had sex in a car and he’d drawn her in the nude.... 

_Whatever gets us laid_ , his dick says. _Oh my God, we’re going to get laid. Or something. If we don’t fall asleep_. 

Maybe they go to Eddie’s place, probably a loft on Central Park. King-size bed. Floor-to-ceiling windows…. Hell, he’d have sex with him in the Escalade, even. Smack his hand on the window, Titanic style. All the same, the thought of them going to Richie’s instead of Eddie’s no-doubt palatial residence is too funny to resist.

“So. My place?” Richie says, and Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead as he nearly chokes on his ice water.

“Uh. Sure,” Eddie answers, blinking, as if they’ve both surprised each other and themselves.

Richie swallows. “Okay. Well, you already know where it is.”

There’s a new tension in the air now, from the table to the valet stand to the Escalade to the street. 

“I’m divorced,” Eddie says suddenly in the quiet as they drive. He’s not looking at Richie.

“Okay,” Richie says, startled. “I’ve… never been married. If we’re sharing.”

“I just…. It was just relatively recent. For me. I was with my ex-wife for a long time.”

“Your ex-wife,” Richie repeats slowly. “Okay.”

“It’s not what you’re thinking.”

“What am I thinking?”

“You think I’m experimenting, or whatever—I’m gay.”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me, dude. I didn’t even accept that I was gay until… I guess last week. See, there was this super hot UPS guy—”

“Richie. I’m being serious.” 

Something occurs to Richie. “Uh. Have you, uh… been with a guy? Before?” _Please don’t let me have to be this guy’s first_ , he thinks desperately. _I barely even know what I’m doing as it is. I can’t be… anybody’s gay sherpa_.

“I mean, yeah, a little.”

“It’s fine, I mean, neither of us have to be… experts.” It strikes Richie how different this Eddie is from the furious sharp-dressed man in the coffee shop, to the teasingly bossy date at dinner. He seems… tired, a little smaller. Richie doesn’t want him to feel that way. “It’s fine,” he says again, more firmly. “Dude, Eddie. I know you were showing off, buying me dinner, the driving, whatever. I… don’t think anything I can do to and or with you in my dinky apartment will come anywhere close to paying off my increasingly long tab for you, but….”

“I wasn’t ‘showing off,’” Eddie says quietly, frowning. 

“I mean, it’s fine, I get it. You haven’t been on a date in a while, not with a man, you make good money, you want to flaunt it a little.”

“That’s not— I wasn’t—” Something in Eddie’s voice says, however, that Richie was spot on. And… that’s adorable. 

“I appreciate it, I really do, but seriously, I was even thinking if we’d gone to some noodle place I’d be totally fine with it. Would have made it easier, actually, going back to my place considering I’m much more ‘noodle’ than ‘filet mignon.’ C’mon, dude, look at me.”

Eddie does, and he doesn’t say anything, but he smiles. Richie imagines what he must look like in the streetlight, glasses and messy hair, and is confused, but hey.

There’s a place out on the street where Eddie can park, miracle of miracles. “Probably should have brought a LoJack or something,” Richie advises.

“Next time,” Eddie answers, and Richie has no answer for that. 

Richie had considered that he might be coming back here with Eddie, but something about actually cleaning up for such an event felt like he’d be jinxing himself. Plus, he’d been betting he wouldn’t be dumb enough to bring him back here as opposed to whatever penthouse suite Eddie must live in. So much for that.

Richie is fortunate enough to live alone, at least, but he does have a studio. He likes it, though—it has character, probably due to the building once having been the site of child labor and Victorian urchins, or something. “Character” of course means exposed beams and brick. 

“Nice place,” Eddie says, sounding a little breathless, as Richie locks the door. 

Richie shrugs. “Nice of you to say. Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to the couch-slash-futon. His actual bed is back behind a large Japanese antique screen, possibly the gayest thing he owns and maybe the most valuable as well. But it’s not time for that yet, anyway. He hangs up his overcoat, and belatedly gestures to Eddie. “Uh. Take your jacket,” he says, feeling at a loss.

“Right, right.” Eddie sheds his jacket hastily, and damn, even just with that gone he can tell the man goes to the gym. 

Richie sits, almost carefully like he’s afraid to startle Eddie and send him fleeing into the night. “So—”

“Can I kiss you?” Eddie says, low and urgent.

Richie blinks. “God, yeah, I mean, but Eddie—you don’t have to rush ahead. You don’t have to prove anything.”

“No, it’s not… not like that. I just really want to kiss you.” Eddie’s practically vibrating with tension, which seems… odd.

Richie feels his eyes narrowing. “Far be it from me to look a gift horse in the mouth, but….” He gestures vaguely at himself. “You’re overcome with passion for… Richard Wentworth Tozier? You don’t have to butter me up, man. You know, the dinner thing and all. Like, I’m already on board.” The memories of every hookup he’s had run through his mind. They usually just got right to it, although not like animals or anything—after small talk, water, whatever. There just hadn’t been a need for anything like a discussion.

“Do you want to kiss me?” Eddie asks, and it takes something out of him to say it. And it shouldn’t be like that, for Eddie.

Richie shifts closer to him, fights to keep himself from cupping Eddie’s ridiculously sculpted jaw. “Jesus. Yes. Did I not make it clear enough with the constant innuendoes? I felt like I was but maybe I wasn’t—” and then Eddie is practically falling forward into his lap and pressing his mouth to Richie’s. It’s more or less a kiss, but Richie does cup his jaw then, holding him still and parting his lips against Eddie’s as he pulls him against him properly with a coordination he would not have expected of himself at the calmest of times. Eddie from that point on thankfully shows he’s not a stranger to kissing _per se_ , to the point where what seems like ages later Richie realizes he’s practically vertical, pressed into the couch-slash-futon under a very determined risk analyst. 

Eddie’s entire body weight is on him now and Richie gets a hand on his side, remembering that they do in fact have hands as one of Eddie’s snakes up under his somehow untucked shirt. He gasps, Eddie takes advantage of that to kiss him more deeply, and Richie can’t resist rocking his hips up against Eddie’s. Now it’s Eddie’s turn to gasp, and he breaks the kiss to sit up. With a little shock going through him, Richie prepares to apologize, to say it’s fine, they can stop. But Eddie’s rapidly unbuttoning his shirt and shrugging it off, and of course underneath it he’s wearing an undershirt. He peels that off like a damn Jockey underwear package model of the type Richie would have jerked off to back in his teens, or even today, honestly, and yes the man goes to the gym. Blinking up at him, Richie is unprepared for Eddie to lightly smack him while saying “Off.”

“‘Off’? You’re sitting on me.”

“Shirt off.”

“Oh.” Richie struggles exaggeratedly to sit up as well, maybe delaying a little. But there’s nothing for it, he’s going to look stupid being fully clothed while Eddie is naked, and it’s whatever. It’s just making out, it’s just sex. Whatever. “I will disappoint you,” he promises, “don’t say I didn’t give any warning,” and Eddie is actually helping him unbutton his shirt and pushing it over his shoulders, there’s something Eddie’s doing where he really is touching his shoulders maybe a bit more than necessary. Richie is not wearing an undershirt, of course, and Eddie’s eyes are huge, staring at him. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Dude, what.”

“What, you think I don’t want to see you?”

Richie looks down at himself. “I’m… just a guy,” he says, “I guess,” and he looks at Eddie, who is sculpted, waxed, cologned, sleek. “You, on the other hand, are….” and whatever he was going to say is caught in Eddie’s kiss.

It takes Richie a moment to realize Eddie is both kissing him and clumsily trying to unbuckle his belt. _The one time I wear a belt_ , he thinks wildly, and makes a noise. Eddie keeps kissing him, keeps trying but failing to unbuckle him from this angle, and Richie finally pulls back with a gasp. “Shoes, shoes,” he gets out, and kicks them off after much struggling, with Eddie following his lead. “Fucking… pants,” Richie gasps, unbuckling his own belt with all speed, and as he reaches for Eddie’s, Eddie’s unbuttoning him and unzipping him and oh my God getting his hand in there, cupping Richie through his boxers. “Fuck!”

Eddie’s watching him, eyes still huge and intent. He swallows, a click in his throat. “Richie….” He’s squeezing him, dear God.

“Eds… pants… off, please, you’re gonna kill me.” Richie groans as Eddie extricates his hand and gets Richie’s pants off to their fate in an unceremonious heap on the floor. Lying back, stunned, Richie watches as Eddie gets his pants off, and of course he’s fucking wearing tight little briefs. He’s hard, leaking so much the wetness is visible where it darkens the fabric and glistens in the dim light. “Eds.”

Eddie clambers over him again, to lay on top of him again and just kiss and kiss him as Richie arches up helplessly against him as though he’s in the makeout session of his teenage dreams, as though there’s nothing beyond this. Eddie’s mindlessly pulling a hand through his hair, and that tug gets Richie perilously close to coming in his boxers. Something in his shuddering or maybe his whimper makes Eddie stop, and he looks down at Richie, panting. “What do you want?”

“I feel like I should be asking you that,” Richie answers. “Seriously, it’s up to you. I was.… I’m not proud, but I was getting pretty close, there. The. Hair thing. This kissing.” Putting his hands over his face, he laughs. “I told you I’m not twenty anymore, but I kinda feel like I am right now. Younger than that, maybe.”

Eddie pulls his hands away and kisses him again. Richie imagines him kissing down his neck down his chest, to his stomach, to his dick. He wonders if Eddie has even given head before, and pictures himself doing it instead, Eddie’s hands in his hair, tugging as he comes.

Jesus.

Maybe all Eddie is really comfortable with right now is this. That’s fine. More than fine. But… Richie’s beginning to register the unsuitability of the couch-slash-futon for this kind of thing. 

“Richie,” Eddie murmurs, kissing his jaw, and Richie takes the opportunity to gasp out, “Bed?”

Eddie blinks at him, going still, and Richie panics slightly—Eddie not moving is not what he wants. 

“I mean, is that okay? It’s just a little cramped here. It’s a little cramped everywhere, it’s a studio, but…. Unless, if you want to sit here, I could…” Richie gestures toward the floor, hands making the universal sign for _I’m going to kneel in front of you_ , “blow you.”

Eddie inhales sharply at that, and looks at him for what seems like an unnecessarily long time. Maybe, somehow, he’s never gotten head from a man before. Now, Richie has never wanted to be anyone’s first time for anything, that’s way too much pressure, but maybe he could make an exception, just this once. Finally, Eddie nods, voice a little huskier when he says, “Yeah, okay. But on the bed."

At some point, Richie realized (after it had happened a few times) that he kind of preferred giving instead of getting, that despite being a man who soaked up any sort of attention on stage, he didn’t necessarily want one-on-one, intense, direct focus on himself. Besides which, he wanted to get his mouth on this man’s dick.

“Okay.” As Eddie gets up, Richie gestures to the screen. “It’s uh, over that way. Don’t get lost or anything.” Richie stays on the couch-slash-futon to watch Eddie go, tight little ass and all, before getting up to follow him the second Eddie turns back to look at him, question on his face.

With a speed Richie vaguely feels a shiver of discomfort at, as through someone’s going to make fun of him for dropping to his knees so eagerly like he’d get written about on a men’s room wall for doing, as the back of Eddie’s legs hit his bed Richie crouches in front of him and grasps his briefs, pulling them down as Eddie sits. His dick springs free and Richie feels a little bit awed. Eddie’s sticky, Richie could tell that much with his briefs on, and so hard he’s flat against his perfect abs, twitching a little. His dick is beautiful, flushed and nicely shaped, and Richie just stares at it.

“Is it…. Is it okay?” Eddie asks, hesitant, and Richie, snapped out of his daze, blinks up at him, wondering how on Earth Eddie ever got the impression anything about this right now would not be okay. 

“God, yeah. Yes.” Boy am I gay, he thinks to himself, suppressing a dark chuckle Eddie would probably misinterpret. “I just… needed a second to ogle you. Don’t mind me.” Leaning forward, he licks a slow, long stripe up the underside of Eddie’s cock, attuned to the shaky inhale that gets him. Okay, simple stuff getting a good reaction. Richie didn’t know how good women were at head, but maybe he could be okay with being Eddie’s first experience getting head from a man, if that was what was happening. Even if it wasn’t, Richie was okay with this.

“Wait, wait,” Eddie suddenly says, and Richie looks up at him. “Do you… need me to wear a condom?”

“Just for this?” Richie says without thinking. “Oh, yeah, well, I mean, I don’t have anything. Do you?”

“No, but… you’re okay with it? There’s… stuff.”

‘Stuff?’ Richie thinks. Is Eddie not comfortable with precome? Or come at all? Or was it just the mess he didn’t like? He was pretty… neat, after all. Kinda neurotic, maybe? Well, who was Richie to judge anyone for being neurotic. Maybe his ex-wife hadn’t liked it? “I mean, it’s sex, it’s normal. It’s good, actually, like this. I like it.” Now that was true. “It means you want it.” A little twitch, and Eddie’s dick spurts out another drop, and they both blink. “I’m sorry, I just have to….” and Richie bends again to take the head of Eddie’s dick in his mouth and suck it clean. 

The feeling of Richie’s tongue over the underside of his dick there—what was it, the frenulum, something like that—draws a shudder and a moan from Eddie that has Richie pressing a hand firmly against his own cock in an attempt to calm himself down. He takes more of him in, as slowly as he can manage, savoring it as well as letting Eddie ease into it. Part of him is really proud at his ability to more or less deepthroat, and it frustrates him that there’s still that voice of small-town shame in the back of his mind, asking what the fuck he thinks he’s doing. But right now, only Eddie is here, and there’s only Eddie to please.

Richie literally wants to bathe Eddie’s dick with his tongue, the taste of his clean skin and the slight saltiness of his precome having him drooling. Eddie keeps leaking, spurting into his mouth as Richie’s tongue gets intimately acquainted with him, his own dick throbbing insistently. Jesus, Richie knows he could come from doing this, this and maybe a hand in his boxers. He groans softly at the thought, not realizing how that would make Eddie gasp until he does, putting a hand in Richie’s hair and pulling gently, inexpertly, purely out of instinct. The gay cliches Richie’s already encountered in his admittedly cursory sex life: _pull my hair_ , _spank me_ , _come on my face_ already seem rote and routine in some way, practiced coming from those other guys, but this is apparently new to Eddie, who probably didn’t suspect that tugging Richie’s hair would do anything for him. 

Suddenly Richie wants very badly to get Eddie off, to swallow him down. What was that Liz Phair lyric on that Nineties mix his friend Bev played over and over when they were driving around their shitty hometown? _I want to be your blowjob queen_. When they were out in the sticks, Richie was brave enough to shout along with her, while Bev just grinned.

He takes Eddie in down to the root, throat working around him, and Eddie full-body quivers, like for all the world the entire concept is new to him. What a shame, what a pity he hasn’t been treated like this—you know, not that Richie’s head is world-class but still—every day for the past twenty years or so. Eddie’s hips are moving, and Richie’s hands frame them, corralling his movement a little as he draws up, takes him in again, repeat, repeat. Both of Eddie’s hands are in his hair and he’s making gasping noises that are clearly involuntary. Richie practically wants to weep, he’s so turned on he feels aflame, trying desperately to commit this to memory, to his spank bank, if you will.

Eddie’s gasps start to sound more helpless, and he’s squirming more, when he gets out, “Wait, you don’t have to,” as Richie’s hands squeeze his devilishly narrow little hips, mouth tight around him. Richie just hums, taking him all the way in and leaving him there, swallowing around him as Eddie’s leaking turns into actual coming, down his throat. “God,” Eddie moans.

Richie opens his eyes and slides off, shaking a little. Eddie stares at him like he’s been hit by a truck, flushed and dazed. 

“You didn’t have to,” Eddie says, hoarsely.

“What, swallow?” Richie licks his lips, and Eddie’s eyes widen just a bit more. “Yeah, I mean, I’m fine with that. I... like it, actually.” He can feel his face getting red.

“What can I, uh, do for you?” Eddie asks, flustered. 

“It’s okay, man, you just got off, you can take a minute to process,” Richie says, but Eddie is tugging at him to pull him onto the bed. Something tells Richie that reciprocal head is a tall order right now, so…. “Hand, hand is fine,” he says, allowing himself to be manhandled and positioned by this terrier of a man, determined even as he’s still a little trembling and breathless.

Eddie takes his boxers off, and Richie’s always felt dumb just wearing socks, but he also doesn’t want to stop to take them off, not when Eddie’s occupied with looking at his dick. Richie’s never been one to leak all that much, but he’s so hard it hurts, and he’s flushed darker than usual. When Eddie touches him, he inhales sharply, and can’t help closing his eyes, covering his face. Eddie wraps his fingers around him and starts to slowly stroke him, and this at least is something he’s more familiar with, apparently. Richie groans against his palms. This won’t take long at all.

“Don’t, don’t cover your face,” he hears, and suddenly Eddie’s other hand is touching both of his. Surprised, he pulls them away. His glasses are hopelessly smeared at this point, but he can’t look away from Eddie’s gaze, and he comes like that, Eddie’s grip tight around him. 

“Jesus,” he groans. Eddie’s watching him with almost a hunger. He fights the urge to cover his face again, to maybe turn over entirely. A few more twitches of his cock and he sinks into the bed, boneless, but has to close his eyes, turning his head a little. “Sorry, dude,” he says, “I tried to keep you from seeing my O face.”

“It’s fine. I…. I liked it,” Eddie says, and Richie opens his eyes to see Eddie still looking at him, although after a few seconds he looks away, as if suddenly shy. 

He’s holding his sticky hand in the air, still, and Richie points to the nightstand. “Kleenex.” Looking grateful, Eddie wipes his hand off. _Fastidious_ , Richie thinks. _We’re a regular Felix and Oscar, here_. “Pass me one,” he says, and when Eddie does, he dabs off his stomach. Eddie watches him, and there’s still that hunger in his gaze, like he can’t get enough of looking at… Richie. “I know it’s impossible to keep your eyes off my incredible underwear model body—oh wait, that’s you.”

Eddie blushes, dimpling again. “Looks like we’re more like sock models, right now.”

Okay, that’s a good one. Richie leans in with the sudden urge to kiss one of those dimples, and is surprised when Eddie dodges a followup attempt to kiss him properly, ducking his head. Eyes wide, Eddie looks apologetic. Richie remembers his mouth was recently full of Eddie’s come, and maybe that’s not something Eddie is a fan of. Okay. It’s not everyone’s thing.

“It doesn’t bother me,” Richie tells him. Eddie nods. “But if you want me to like, rinse my mouth out, or something, that’s fine.”

“Yeah.” Eddie nods again, and Richie gets up, feeling ridiculous wearing just socks as he goes to the kitchen sink. 

When he turns and walks back, he catches Eddie staring at him, and yeah he could possibly get used to this underwear model looking at him that way, although God knows he doesn’t understand why it’s happening. Whatever.

Eddie practically pulls him back onto the bed, kissing him with some hesitation at first. Apparently Richie’s suitably clean, however, because soon after he’s kissing him properly, becoming absorbed in it again, quickly. Richie imagines them working each other into a state again, getting off again, and once more for good measure, and maybe again, for the rest of the night. Anything further, like actual fucking, doesn’t seem to be on the table right now, and that’s fine. Eddie probably hasn’t fucked or been fucked by a man before, and that advanced tutorial is beyond Richie right now, as much as he might want it, and he does. Hell, he wants Eddie to give him head, too, as unpracticed as it would surely be. That doesn’t matter. 

But right now, Richie does kind of want to sleep. “Hey,” he whispers against the kissing he’s getting.

Eddie pauses, looking for a minute like he must have done something wrong.

“You wanna sleep?” Richie asks.

Eddie nods.

“Good, okay.” Richie finds and retrieves their underwear, and they put them back on (Richie’s never been a fan of sleeping with his junk out, regardless of who’s in his bed). After taking his glasses off, he pulls back the covers, and ushers Eddie under them, pressing against his back, his knees against the back of Eddie’s knees. Eddie shifts as if in protest, but Richie wraps an arm over him and pulls him up tight, until he relaxes against him. Richie is most definitely not prepared to be the little spoon, not yet. 

Richie sleeps better than he has in years.

When he wakes, it’s light out, and Eddie’s sound asleep right where he left him. Richie lets himself enjoy it, just laying there and listening to the city outside, Eddie’s even breathing. He doesn’t want to get up, but he needs to pee, and make coffee. He ignores his morning wood.

He comes back to bed to find Eddie awake, turned around from where he was, and he gets back into bed.

“You got work?” Eddie asks, voice rough with sleep.

“Nah, not yet. Told my boss I’d be in late.” He smiles.

“Oh yeah? You were that sure?”

“I was about me. Told you I’m a sure thing.”

“And what if I hadn’t come home with you?”

“I’d find some other hot underwear model.”

Eddie laughs and blushes, biting his lip for a moment and looking at Richie’s mouth like he wants to kiss him, but he doesn’t. Richie figures Eddie must want mouthwash and a shower at least. That’s fine. He does feel kind of gross, himself.

“You can shower, if you want,” Richie tells him, “and I’ve made coffee. Extra toothbrush in the drawer in the sink cabinet. Unused.”

“Okay.” Nodding, Eddie gets out of bed, and Richie stretches into the warm spot he’s left and watches him until the screen blocks his view. He dozes off a little, until he remembers the coffee.

It is kinda cold in here, so he puts on a robe to stand in the kitchen (or what passes for the kitchen) and drink from his Little Shop of Horrors mug. Eddie comes out of the bathroom with a cloud of soap-smelling steam, perfectly clean and dressed, neat as a pin with his slick hair combed. “Aw, you mean I don’t even get to watch you get dressed?”

Eddie just dimples at him, and it’s alarming how quickly Richie’s become addicted to that reaction.

“Well, I feel like a slob now, but what else is new. My turn, you can hang around and have the rest of this coffee if it’s good enough for you. I won’t spill any on you this time, unless, you know, you get off on that.” Richie walks into the bathroom, something in him aflutter at knowing Eddie was just in here himself, naked. What is he, a teenage girl?

Stripping off his robe, boxers, and socks, he has to admit he feels good. Really good. He’s hurrying, in fact, because he wants to catch Eddie before he leaves, kiss him at least, maybe make out with him a little more. God, they could even go to brunch together. Okay, that might be a bit much. Eddie might need to go home, for one. 

He walks out, having forgotten to bring his clothes in the bathroom with him since it’s not something he usually does, to Eddie perusing his bookshelves but looking like he does need, if not want, to leave. Eddie does, however, watch him get dressed, grinning. Richie winks at him at one point, and vamps a little, sticking his tongue out and wiggling his ass. God forbid he just let himself be looked at, but it’s odd being… ogled.

It’s later than he thinks, and he does in fact have to get going pretty soon himself, but he needs to send Eddie off first. “Have a good day at work, dear,” Eddie teases, kissing him on the cheek, and Richie turns to kiss him properly, for the first time, actually, since last night. It threatens to be distracting, Eddie’s focus totally on him, but he manages to extricate himself, closing his eyes for a moment, tightly.

“Okay. Text me,” he tells Eddie as he steps out into the hallway.

“Call me, asshole,” Eddie retorts.

But it’s Eddie who texts him, on Monday evening. When he sees he’s got a message from him, Richie’s both relieved the unspoken who-contacts-who game has been resolved, and nervous about what Eddie might have sent him.

 _I can’t stop thinking about you_.

Well. Richie’s first instinct is to look around his immediate area, like he’s expecting a camera crew to jump out because he’s being pranked. He can’t remember anyone ever telling him they can’t stop thinking about him. He’s pretty sure he would remember that. 

Okay. How long should he wait to respond? Fuck it.

_you too_

Damn, that was probably too soon.

Read. Typing.

_I don’t know, I just wanted to say that._

_okay. you know ive heard it all before_

_Ha ha. You free this Friday?_

_i dont know, let me check. yes._

_Dinner?_

_im still digesting from last time. drinks?_

_How can you manage to type like that in the age of autocorrect?_

_its a talent. so drinks?_

_Yes. Then my place._

_can you pick me up at work? i want you to meet my boss, he doesnt believe you exist_

_Sure._

“So this is your sugar daddy,” Mike says gravely as he offers a hand to Eddie.

“Damn it, Mike,” Richie says, tipping his head back. “Fuck, man. I asked you not to embarrass me.” Eddie, thankfully, just laughs.

“So,” Richie says, once they’re in the Escalade again, “you can’t stop thinking about me, huh?” Looking over at Eddie, he can’t suppress a smirk. “I mean, I’m totally used to hearing that. Expected it, actually. It’s fine.”

Eddie’s blushing, but he laughs. “Look, asshole. Yeah, okay?” 

“What about me, specifically? My thick glasses? My distinctly carefree hairstyle? My gym-honed physique?”

“Will you stop?” Eddie says. “Okay, your shoulders, for one. Okay?”

“My shoulders?” Richie repeats, shifting around in his seat, truly surprised. 

“Yeah. They’re… wide.” Eddie clears his throat.

“Sure. Okay, you can’t stop thinking about my shoulders. All right.”

“Yes, okay? I like… I like your shoulders. I like… the way you look.” Eddie’s definitely blushing now. 

“Hey, that’s my line.”

“Shut up, asshole,” Eddie laughs.

“I mean, I’m not even dressed up for you today. These are my regular work clothes.”

“I’ve already seen you in your regular work clothes, remember?”

“And yet you’re still warm for my form. It’s a miracle.”

“I think you’re hot, okay? You’re hot.” Eddie’s cheeks are aflame.

“I am not ‘hot,’ Edward,” Richie responds, trying to sound offended.

“Do me the courtesy of believing me, okay, you prick?” Eddie tries to look angry, and Richie can’t help but laugh. 

“That’s not your real angry face. You don’t scare me.”

Eddie lapses into chuckling. But he doesn’t drop it. “So nobody tells you you’re hot?”

“Uh, let me think. I mean, maybe when it’s closing time and they’re looking for a hookup? That’s about it, really.” Yeah, dudes have expressed to Richie that they think he’s good-looking and they want to hook up, but that’s… just a thing you say.

“Okay. Well, they should.” And finally, he leaves it at that.

They’re in what is apparently Eddie’s neighborhood now, and Eddie tells him they’re going to a bar near his place. Richie frankly feels far more at home crammed at the end of a loud bar eating a burger than he did at Delmonico’s. It’s so loud and crowded that Eddie’s knee is wedged between his, and they’re leaning in close to each other to be heard. Eddie finally explains what he does, although Richie’s damned if he can remember any of it five minutes later. Eddie’s dressed a little more casually, too, but he’s eating a grilled chicken salad—Richie guesses he has to make some concessions to have a body that trim.

After a few beers, Eddie suggests, brows raised, “Back to mine? We can walk.”

Richie nods. “Yeah, sure.” He already feels weirdly at home with Eddie, but at the thought of going to his place, his heart does start beating faster. 

Eddie, of course, lives in a gorgeous apartment, with a doorman, even. Everything in his home is sleek, sparse, and clean. Eddie makes him take off his shoes at the door. “Your place looks like an ad in a magazine,” Richie observes in the foyer, hands in his jacket pockets.

“Yeah, well.” Eddie gestures to take his jacket, and looks Richie over as he hangs it up. 

"I was lying earlier, I am dressed up for you—this is actually my formal Hawaiian bowling shirt,” Richie tells him.

“Take it off.”

Richie blinks. “Okay.” Under that, he’s got on a t-shirt. Eddie is still, however, looking at him like he’s water in the desert. Richie guesses that yes, smedium was the correct size, after all. Eddie sheds his jacket and hangs it up. “Members Only, huh?” Richie says.

“Shut up, asshole,” Eddie says yet again, and kisses him, clinging to him like Richie is a life preserver. Okay. Good. Richie still doesn’t get it, but okay.

Still kissing him, Eddie practically shoves him bodily back onto the couch. Kind of a change from the almost shy dude he’d been at Richie’s. Maybe home territory brought out his aggressiveness.

Now that’d be interesting.

Eddie is still kissing him like he’s trying to win at it, or possibly make up for who knew how many years of wanting to kiss dudes and not being able to. Richie is definitely thankful for being a vector for whatever it is Eddie feels he needs to make up for. He slides his hands up and down Eddie’s nicely muscled back, and nearly chokes when Eddie grinds down on him. 

“Eds,” he gets out.

Eddie stops, and blinks down at him, breathless. “Yeah?”

“What do you want? I mean,” he hastens to add, “I’m perfectly fine with a repeat of the other night. More than fine.”

He starts to wonder if he’s made a mistake in asking, or at least asking this early, from how Eddie’s brow furrows. Really, Richie has no idea what Eddie’s okay with, what he’s got experience with. Other than their other night together, of course. Eddie presses his lips together, looking uncertain.

Richie sighs. “Yeah, sorry. I shouldn’t have rushed you into trying to decide.” 

“No, it’s fine, it’s fine. I’m just….” Eddie sighs. “I’m not used to getting to decide a lot. Of this stuff. Or, like, wanting to do stuff.”

“Well, we can do whatever you’re comf—”

“I want to fuck you,” Eddie blurts out, and they stare at each other.

“Oh. Okay,” Richie finally answers, mouth dry. “Right.”

“I’m sorry, do you not… not do that?” Eddie says quickly, sounding mortified, starting to get red in the face. 

“I definitely do that,” Richie answers slowly. “I’m not sure how you guessed I would, actually. Lot of guys assume I don’t.”

“Why?”

“Well, I’m tall. And, you know, shoulders, I guess.”

Dimples. “Okay, so, yeah. I….”

“...haven’t done this before?”

“No.” Eddie looks a little abashed, and Richie can’t help reaching to cup his cheek. 

“It’s fine. I shall guide you, with my infinite wisdom as the world’s mouthiest bottom.” Eddie leans in to kiss him, and there’s a new urgency to it, but there’s a sort of frantic energy to him as well. “Hey,” Richie manages, “you sure you wanna do this? Remember, you have nothing to prove to anybody. It can get kinda… down and dirty,” he adds, for lack of a better phrase. Then he can’t believe he’s trying to talk a hot muscle twink out of fucking him just because he’s never done it before.

“Yes,” Eddie says, firmly. “I really, really want to fuck you.”

“All right then,” Richie says, a little faintly. “Take me, I’m yours.” 

Eddie’s bedroom is just as sleek and clean as the rest of his apartment. He tugs off Richie’s shirt, and his jeans, and his socks, and directs him back onto his big wide bed. He gets out of his own clothes and Richie lies there looking at him. They smile at each other, and Eddie climbs up the bed to lie over him again—he seems to really like that. And Richie definitely doesn’t mind.

“So…” Richie murmurs, “you got lube, you got condoms?”

“Yeah.” Eddie nods. 

“You want to prep me or do you want me to do it?” Richie asks, barely able to believe he’s saying the words.

“You could… start?” Eddie suggests. “And then I can take over? I mean… I know the basics. I’ve….” His cheeks start to redden. “I’ve done it to myself. Alone. The fingers part.”

“Oh.” Richie raises a brow. “I’d like to see that sometime.” Eddie ducks his head, dimpling again, almost coy except he’s sincere. “How do you want me?”

“On your back,” Eddie says immediately. “That’s how I’ve been picturing it.”

“Good, I’m lazy and my knees are going,” Richie says, deciding to ignore that last part.

Eddie’s choice of lube suggests he did a lot of research to determine the best kind and maybe even special-ordered it. It’s not available at most drug stores, that is. Not in Richie’s neighborhood, anyway. Boxers off, on his back, Richie slicks his fingers up and….

Richie will admit he hasn’t let himself get fucked by that many guys. It’s usually just easier to either not fuck, or to fuck the other guy. Sometimes, though, he’s just gotta have it. The thought of Eddie fucking him… he’s completely on board, and is fairly sure any amount of awkwardness and learning curve will be worth it.

Eddie is watching him very intently, at one point (Richie’s not sure when he starts) leaning his head on Richie’s knee, one hand smoothing restlessly up and down his thigh. That’s fairly distracting, actually. Richie himself is definitely feeling flushed, and his erection comes and goes in terms of fullness given how wound up he is, but Eddie’s looking at him, again, like he hung the moon. “God, you’re so hot,” Eddie says, almost muttering it, as if to himself. Maybe he _was_ talking to himself, Richie thinks, stifling a laugh. He’d be right, anyway.

Okay, so scrap the plan of letting Eddie take over the fingering, maybe. Another time, ha ha. “Condom,” Richie says, and Eddie gets the message. He’s between Richie’s thighs posthaste, looking very anxious about getting something wrong, but also very horny. “Slow… slow… there, yeah, come on,” whispers Richie. He wraps his legs around Eddie’s hips and practically hauls him up and toward him as he sinks in. 

“Fuck,” Eddie breathes.

“Yeah,” Richie says, wit abandoning him. “You can move.” Eddie’s breathing is shaky, and Richie can tell he’s on the edge of being overwhelmed. “Hey, Eds,” he whispers, cupping Eddie’s face in his hands, pulling his face close to kiss him as he starts to move under Eddie, and Eddie gets with the program with a little shuddering sigh, kissing him back and _moving_. And it’s soon apparent that if there’s one thing Eddie has, it’s stamina. Or, possibly, none of the guys who’ve fucked Richie before this have been very good at it. That’s also a strong contender. _Both, why not both_ , Richie thinks as Eddie absolutely—there’s no other word for it—rails him. He has to stop kissing him—not without regret, since Eddie is kind of nipping at him and that is something Richie’s discovering he’s very into—to gasp out, “I thought you’d never done this before.”

“Not this, exactly,” Eddie pants, “but like, the general thing, yeah. And it’s not exactly rocket science, Jesus.” Eddie shifts back, giving himself a different base of leverage and a new angle that immediately has Richie completely poleaxed, laying back staring at the ceiling unable even to blink. Eddie moves Richie’s legs to drape over his arms and Richie lets him. _Mouthy bottom, eh_ , he thinks to himself. “Rich,” Eddie says, “snap out of it.”

“Oh, sorry, I’m just getting the absolute living daylights fucked out of me,” Richie replies, strained.

“Come back to me,” Eddie directs, shifting forward again, Richie hastily moving to cross his ankles behind Eddie’s back, arms wrapping around his shoulders. The angle of his dick isn’t as deep-reaching but somehow that’s okay. Better than okay. Eddie is now attacking his neck with those biting kisses, and he’s helpless beneath the assault. One hand still clutching Eddie’s increasingly slick back, his other clumsily works between them to wrap around himself, frantically working to get himself off.

“Fuck, fuck, oh fuck,” he gasps, shuddering hard, barely hearing Eddie whispering affirmatives, and his name. “Fuck, Eds.” 

Richie comes with Eddie staring at him, and he wants desperately to look away, to cover his face, but one hand is squeezing his cock and the other is scrabbling on Eddie’s back, and besides, Eddie’s blocking him. Plus, for some reason, he can’t look away. Red in the face, Eddie comes, grinding down on him hard, and Richie tightens his legs around him.

They blink at each other, both panting. Eddie kisses him, and slowly draws out of him. Mouth hanging slightly open, wide-eyed, he looks gobsmacked. Then he seems to remember what a messy business it all is. He winces suddenly, raising up a bit and looking down between them. It’s one of the hottest sights Richie’s seen, gobs of his own come spattering Eddie’s stomach, but evidently Eddie wants to get it off of him, and he gets up to hustle to his bathroom, taking the condom off as he goes. The water runs, and Richie lies there, letting his breathing return to something resembling normal.

“You can check that off your out-of-the-closet to-do list,” Richie calls.

Silence. Then Eddie stalks out of the bathroom, still naked, and stares at him.

“What?”

Richie sits up, reaching for the Kleenex box on Eddie’s nightstand. Of course the box is color-coordinated to match his decor. “Just said you can check that off your list.” He wipes off his hand, his stomach. 

Eddie steps very close to the bed, one hand on his hip, blinking hard. The fingers of his other hand tense, his mouth working. Richie starts to suspect he’s said something wrong.

“You think I have some kind of… list?”

“No? I’m not being literal, it’s just… you’re….”

“Like there’s some kind of gay checklist I’m going down? You think you’re just some checkbox I randomly picked?”

“No? Yes? I don’t know.”

“I’m trying to get experience points or something? I go out with the first guy who asks me, that kind of thing?”

“Eddie—”

“Fuck you, man.” Richie refrains from pointing out that Eddie just did, but it’s a struggle. Eddie huffs out a breath. He’s slashing his free hand through the air to punctuate his words, and it’s mesmerizing. Fucked out, Richie has to direct his attention to what Eddie’s saying, and it’s… not good. “Just… fuck you. I know it’s hilarious to you that some newly divorced out-of-the-closet shithead took you out to dinner, it’s a fucking riot you’re the first time some forty-year-old guy fucked a man, it’s the fucking best joke ever that I just met you and I can’t fucking stop thinking about you. Can you fucking think for one goddamn second about how I might feel?”

“Eds—hey—”

“What this might fucking be for me? Do you even know what that was just now, to me?” Eddie’s voice is loud, fast, but there’s a shaking in it. Fuck, if he’s gonna cry—

“Come on, I didn’t mean any—” Richie starts to be afraid that beyond possibly starting to cry, Eddie might hyperventilate.

“Do you have any fucking idea how much I’ve wanted that? I had fucking years of sex I tried to avoid and didn’t feel jack shit about when I had it. I had… fucking random handjobs from dudes in my goddamn thirties like some kind of asshole. I felt like shit about it too. This… I know this was whatever for you, it’s nothing special, I’m some kind of pity fuck for you or something—”

“Hey, hey! I felt bad for spilling coffee on you, but that does not constitute a pity fuck! I’m legally ineligible to even give pity fucks!” Why, why can’t Richie shut up?

Eddie’s florid. He closes his eyes tightly for a moment. “Fuck you!” he almost screams. “Before you even fucking spilled anything or fucking said anything to me, I was checking you out, you asshole! I thought you were hot! But it’s all just fucking hilarious to you, isn’t it!”

Richie blinks, starting to wonder if he’s going to cry, too. “Do you… need me to leave? I mean, I can go, never darken your towels again, whatever—”

“No! Don’t fucking go anywhere! Jesus!”

“Just… lie here and let you keep yelling at me?”

Eddie kind of collapses a little. He takes a long shuddering breath. “Stop… fucking acting like you don’t have anything to do with this, like it’s not real and you can just make jokes and pretend it’s not happening!”

Okay, now he really is going to cry. “I’m….” No use in trying to claim that hasn’t been what he’s been doing. “I don’t know what you want from me, okay? I don’t… I’m not used to….”

“What the fuck, Rich? You think you’re so hideous, so desperate you have to settle for random sex from random dudes? You think this is just more of that? It’s not for me, okay? That right now? That was what I’ve fucking wanted since I first knew I liked guys. I don’t know if that fucking scares you or what, but goddamn it, I was fucking scared, I fucking realized I had to tell my wife and get a divorce, for fuck’s sake, and I have to start over now, so you can damn well have enough sack to fucking acknowledge that someone likes you, that someone fucking wants you. You asshole.” Exhaling, Eddie presses his hands to his face. “Maybe it’s not all about you all the time,” he adds, muffled. 

“Eddie.”

Eddie drops his hands to his sides. He looks wan, exhausted. “Look. It’s fine. You’re not interested. And I’ve made a fucking idiot of myself.”

“Shit. No! I am, trust me, I am. I just don’t…. I don’t get….”

“Get what.” The urgency’s drained from Eddie’s voice, and something about that makes Richie want to panic.

“I don’t get…. Eddie, don’t make me say it.”

Eddie folds his arms, cocks a brow, tilts his head. “Fucking say it.”

Richie closes his eyes, and enunciates clearly, “I don’t get why you like me. Okay?”

The bed shifts as Eddie sits. “Do you not…. Like…. What do you want from me, Rich? What do you want me to tell you? Do you not believe me?”

“It’s not that I don’t believe you… find me hot, or whatever’s wrong with you, I just don’t know why—”

“Do you know how annoying it is to have you doubt my attraction to you? When for most of my life I’d been questioning what I wanted and now I’m finally sure?”

“I don’t doubt it, I just don’t get it!”

“You don’t have to fucking get it! Just accept it!” Richie opens his eyes. Eddie looks immeasurably sad. “Rich. I almost had a panic attack, after you left the coffee shop. I don’t know how I stopped myself from having one, but I did, but I was so—”

“I mean, if I give you panic attacks, then maybe—”

“That’s how excited I was. That’s how excited I was that I saw you, that you talked to me and asked me out, in your fucked-up, stupid way. This is new to me, okay?”

“Well.” Richie clears his throat, and drops back on his elbows. “Maybe someone telling me they sincerely think I’m hot and it not being a line is new to me.”

“You _are_ hot.” Sighing, Eddie slumps slowly over and rests his head on Richie’s chest. “You’re so fucking hot I don’t know what to do with myself.” Eddie climbs up him, more or less, and Richie lies down again. Eddie presses his face to the crook of Richie’s neck. His face might be a little bit wet with tears. Richie’s might be, too.

Everything Richie has ever wanted is lying on him right now and he can’t… he just can’t… believe it’s really there. Not yet. Maybe someday, but not now.

Tentatively he puts his arms around Eddie. “Okay,” he finally says. “Okay. You win. You’re right, I _am_ hot.” It’s a joke, yeah, and he hopes Eddie won’t kill him. Because he can’t do more than that right now. 

Eddie laughs softly, tiredly against his skin. “Fuck you, asshole.” But he relaxes against him, putting an arm over him. 

“Fuck you, too,” Richie replies, and kisses Eddie’s temple. They’re quiet for a little while, until Richie can’t not add something. “You know, uh,” he says, and clears his throat, “I do like you.”

Eddie snorts, and looks up a little, dimpling again. “Oh yeah? Wow, lucky me,” he says, and he’s more teasing than sarcastic.

“I mean, yeah, you know. You’re hot—” Eddie smacks him— “or whatever. No, I mean, I like you, for more than just being an un—”

“Being an underwear model.” Eddie’s blushing, all dimples and squints. Richie does enjoy the way he… preens, a little, when Richie says stuff like that to him.

“I wasn’t going to say that, no, but yeah. I mean, you’re also pretty loaded, so there’s that.”

Eddie nips him. “You dick!”

“Ow! Okay. You’re more than a hot, rich piece of ass to me. I guess.”

“Thanks. Jesus.” But he looks pleased.

“Yeah, you’re welcome.” Richie clears his throat. “Has… has a guy said anything like that to you before?”

“What, has a guy told me he liked me? Like we’re in middle school? No, okay? You’re the first.”

All right. Okay. He swallows. “I’m… glad I was the first, then.”

“You’re the first for a lot of things, for me. Can you fucking handle it, jackass?”

“I’ll try. I’ll try my best to handle you finding me irresistible.”

“You fucking better.” Finally, Eddie seems mollified. Richie feels a little elated, he can admit that to himself.

“Hey,” he says. “I can’t help noticing something.”

“What?”

Richie shifts around to get at the right angle to kiss him. “That we’re both still naked.”

“Oh wow, you actually make a great point for once,” Eddie says, and kisses him first. He quickly gets pretty into it, bridging himself over Richie again, and Richie slides his hands down Eddie’s back as Eddie basically plunders his mouth. Oh yeah, there’s his tight little ass. Richie gives that pert bum a firm, two-handed squeeze, and Eddie gasps and nearly bites his tongue off. “Fuck.”

“I’ve been wanting to do that.”

“Yeah? What else do you want?”

“Jeez. That’s a loaded question.”

“Tell me.”

“Uh. I want to wear angel wings from a Halloween store and a neon green thong and a kabuki mask and a cowboy hat while someone smacks my ass with a cat wand toy, but only the kind with real feathers, not that artificial bullshit. Only the best for my ass.”

Eddie laughs. “Fuck you. If you were serious I’d probably do that for you, you know.”

“What about that didn’t seem serious to you.”

“Tell me something you actually want.”

“Okay.” He takes a deep breath. Eddie shifts back and is watching him, one hand going to idly stroke though Richie’s hair. Richie closes his eyes for a moment; it’s such a gesture of familiarity that it makes him ache. He first thinks of wanting to come on Eddie’s perfect abs, but, well, Eddie might not be a fan of that, and that’s a whole other thing to deal with, later. “I've thought about what you look like jerking off,” he says, and that’s true. “I’d like to see that.” God, would he ever. A living wet dream.

Eddie flushes pink, pleased. “Really? You’d want to watch that?”

“Lemme revise: I’d _love_ to watch that.”

“What, right now?”

Shit. “Literally whenever you want, unless of course there’s ever a risk of you being arrested for indecency.” Eddie sets his jaw, and before Richie realizes it, Eddie is straddling him, wrapping a hand around his dick. Richie remembers the last closeup he had of Eddie’s perfection in this particular area, and he has to struggle to say, “Listen. You don’t have to do this right now, Eds. If it’s too much for you—”

“It’s not,” Eddie says, voice tight, giving himself a stroke. Jesus. “I want to.”

“Okay,” Richie says. “I— Fuck, you’re gorgeous.” He swallows hard.

“Talk to me,” Eddie says, low. Fuck. “I like your voice.” Eddie’s starting to leak over his fingers with the slow starting rhythm of his strokes.

Richie laughs abruptly. “Okay, I don’t see how that’s possible but you just yelled at me for saying something similar, so….” He can’t look away from Eddie’s hand around himself. When he speaks again he makes his voice lower, smoother, hopefully less… terrible. “Yeah, uh, not sure if you could tell, but I really liked blowing you. Like, really.” He feels his neck getting hot. “You were… fuck. You felt so good on my tongue, you tasted so good.” He clears his throat. Eddie squeezes his cock harder, inhaling, and strokes himself a little faster. Talking about this, watching this, is getting Richie well on his way to being hard again. “And I like it, uh, I like it when you look at me. All intense. Yeah… like that,” he adds. “Jesus, Eds, if you come on me that’ll probably get me off, just that.” Eddie moans under his breath. “Fuck, you’re dripping.”

Eddie rolls the pad of his thumb over the wet tip of his cock. “Rich.” With Eddie sitting on his hips, Richie’s cock is now hard against his ass. He grinds up against him, hands framing Eddie's pelvis, not really thinking about it, just needing to. Eddie’s hand is moving faster, his chest is getting red and his breathing is getting louder and more desperate.

“Please,” Richie says. “I want to see you. I’ll lick your hand clean after.”

Eddie comes with a hard shudder over his hand and over Richie’s stomach. It’s possibly the most beautiful sight Richie has ever seen, or it’s up there along with the last times he saw Eddie come. 

“Fuck,” Eddie sighs. Richie moves to take his hand, and— “Sorry, Rich.” He ducks his head. “I liked knowing you liked that idea, but….” He laughs shortly. “I’m too fucked up to actually want that right now.”

“It’s fine, yeah. It’s fine. You go clean up, it’ll be my turn to jerk off in the meantime.”

“But I want to watch that.”

“Then hurry up. It’s not gonna be long.”

Eddie practically runs to the bathroom to clean himself off, as Richie stretches back and gets a hand tight around himself. He cups his balls with his other hand. Eyes closed, he arches a little, pressing his heels into the bed, and yeah, no, it doesn’t take long. When he opens his eyes, Eddie is standing over him, that hunger in his eyes again. 

“Kleenex,” Richie says, a little bit hoarse. Eddie hands him one. “Thanks, baby.” Dabbing himself off and dropping the tissue into a wastebasket that of course is at the side of the bed, he doesn’t realize what he said until Eddie climbs back into bed, and then he decides they’d had enough major discussions for the day. 

“Fuck, I’m exhausted,” Eddie breathes. Good, maybe he didn’t notice.

“Go to sleep,” Richie tells him. 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Eddie says on a yawn, before nuzzling into Richie’s neck, pushing him onto his side and curling up behind him. All right, maybe Richie can sleep naked, and maybe he can be the little spoon. 

Just for tonight. Ha.

**Author's Note:**

> This was one of my first attempts at Reddie, back in the spring, in trying to feel out a dynamic I liked for them as a pairing. I shelved it because I wasn't sure I liked the feeling I'd established for them. Returning to it, I decided I'm more comfortable with it now after all, even though it's kinda sloppy and I still feel like Eddie's maybe a little too much—that said, the intensity and cussing is supported in movie canon, so I kept it. Some things I ended up using in other fics, but I didn't feel the need to change much here, since I still like the emotional dynamic regardless and I'm fond of this iteration of Richie. 
> 
> On re-reading, I also realized Richie didn't really seem to be forty, so I decided he was thirty, and Eddie was forty, so that at least lends this a slightly different flavor than it might otherwise would have, considering I started out with my old OTP standby of dinner out and then bed.
> 
> Title courtesy Sonic Youth. Cabbage roll incident was something my father actually did as a teenager.


End file.
